A Bible Man

     It took a minute after the blow for Lacareth to feel the pain.

     First came the shockwave of glass impacting flesh, that tender spot on the side of his head right above his temple. His attacker, a man twice his size, was wielding an inebriated rage in one hand and an empty bottle of rum in the other. None of the glass had cut Lacareth, but he had been struck hard enough for it to splinter, the aftermath leaving a tumbling Lacareth and a bottle-turned makeshift knife. Around them, some of the bargoers exploded into cheers, audibly laughing at the boy’s assault.

     The pain still hadn’t reached him, his mind racing furiously instead. Lacareth held onto the bar to keep himself from falling, the feeling of the pressure still rattling his skull and right ear. Balance would be hard from now on given the blow’s proximity to his ear. An escape would be tough, and he knew it. The pain was coming, and he knew it. But like lightning flashing through the heavens in silent warning, he had a couple of precious seconds to think:

     He had spoken too much or at least spoke just enough in the wrong crowd. Dark eyes fluttered around him, assessing the situation: one attacker, now holding onto a sharp edge. Three others, presumably the man’s posse, had already jumped onto their feet. Their eyes had a dangerous glint, those meaty hands balling into firsts for battle. He tried to turn, pleading gaze facing the bartender, but the man did not dare look up at him. Instead, he spoke with a sigh,

     “Whatever you want to do to him, do it outside.”

     Lacareth tried to run, adrenaline holding onto dear life, but there was only so much he could do to keep himself steady: lighting turned to thunder, and the pain finally struck. He hissed, incapacitated for a second, and that was enough– two of the men grabbed his arms and dragged him outside.

     He was thrown onto the floor, hitting the alleyway’s wall hard. It had just rained a couple of hours ago, and puddles and streams were running on the pavement. By now, Lacaeth’s clothes were soaked and dirty.

     His attackers consisted of four different men. There was a redhead, who had hit him in the head. Then there was a blonde, a brunette, and a final bearded guy, all following along for this public execution. Through the fog inside his head, Lacareth compared them to goons in some of those old movies, dumb and violent. He wasn’t going to have a good time.

     “L-let me go,” he croaked out, struggling to stand, hands pressing against the wet pavement to try and prompt his body up.

     Beard pressed his foot against Lacareth’s chest and pressed, a clear response to the boy’s request. Lacareth gasped as he collapsed back on the ground, and the other men laughed again.

     “Why would we ever do that?” The redhead crouched on the floor beside him, his presence alone keeping him from trying to stand again.

     “He’s fucking scared,” Blonde whistled, an amused sort of surprise. The rest of the men drew closer like a crowd expecting a caged animal to do a trick.

     “They always are,” despite the group’s eagerness, the brunette sounded bored. “Always high and mighty, never following through with their shit. Find it.”

     So, the redhead reached his hand out towards Lacereth’s coat. His hand dug into his pockets, fishing out whatever he could find– wallet, movie ticket, a loose button. Then, there was the sound of a chain, and the man’s smile grew bigger.

     “You were right,” he said, fishing out a small rosary, wooden and handmade, a gift from Lacereth’s mother. “He’s bible man alright.”

     Ah, so that was it. Lacereth hadn’t managed to pinpoint the motive for the attack up to that point.

     He didn’t make it a habit to drink through the workweek, but today had just been one of these days. Bad boss, bad tasks, bad outcomes. He had started the day feeling pretty confident about last week’s numbers, but by the time five o’clock hit, all that energy had been drained away. Paycheck had gone through, half of what he had gotten last week.

     “Cutting some corners,” was the only word from the company, a man with three times his salary, “May God help us all.”

     Lacereth never understood why God was thrown around so much, an excuse for human behavior. As someone merciful, as a grand protector,  as a quiet observer. Lacereth was not one to consider doubting his faith, but the words that pilled up and around him, of God and man, and anything in between, seemed to blind him to the truth. Whatever that was, he didn’t know.

     But as he was trapped in a corner, with no way to run, Lacereth still prayed. What else was he to do when attacked in an alley? The words came through as a broken, pitiful kind of noise, and the men laughed around him. He stayed determined, desperate to hold on to his beliefs, waiting for the Lord to do something about it. He prayed through their laughter. And when the first kick came, he prayed through it too.

     They all took turns terrorizing the boy. Beard was eager to hit first, heavy-duty boot putting pressure in his ribs, bruising under his shoulder. Blonde was kneeling down, pulling on Lacereth’s hair, forceful to guide his sight to his attackers. Brunette kneeled as well, to look through Lacereth’s clothing, his pockets, and belongings, in search of any other valuables that might be worth their time. And Readhead just wanted Lacereth to shut the fuck up.

     But despite his pain, despite his crying, Lacereth kept praying.

     “He won’t shut up,” Brunette hummed, the noise muffled and distorted to Lacereth’s ears. “Got what we wanted, let’s go.”

     “I will make him shut up,” Redhead roared, slamming Lacereth’s head against the pavement.

     Lacereth coughed, eyes lidded, head ringing, but kept at it as soon as he was able to speak once again.

     “Jared,” Brunette warned.

     The other three men had stood up, but Readhead hadn’t. He still had an iron grasp on Lacereth’s hair, pressing his cheek against the dirty, wet floor.

     He leaned down, face close to Lacereth’s, and whispered,

     “Why do you believe someone will help you when there is nothing in return?” It sounded like a genuine question, but the poison in his tone did nothing to soothe Lacereth’s terror. “Why do you worship a concept that will not help you? Is it cause it makes you feel good about yourself?”

     “Anyone needs a reason to smile,” Brunette commented behind them.

     Too much, the pain, the violent bruising, and pressure in his torso, Lacereth could not tell if the blurriness of his vision was from exposure, rain, or blood. What did these men want with him, to tear him apart like this? What did they get in return? Why did they commit to violence? Was it for them to feel good about themselves?

     In a blurred kind consciousness, Lacereth finally stopped praying, only to pose a simple statement instead,

     “He will never abandon me.”

     When the man took that broken glass from his pocket, he spoke of the happiness of faith. As he tore Lacereth’s skin and painted a smile with blood, the man praised Lacereth on how lucky he was, to find a reason to smile from a man that did not exist. As the attackers left him, as the blood mixed with the rain on the floor, as consciousness started to pull him away, Lacereth learned an important lesson:

     God had abandoned him long ago.